


The Duke's Blade

by Sath



Category: Original Work
Genre: 18th century clothing, Anal Sex, Assassins & Hitmen, Dirty Talk, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sex, Loyalty, M/M, Resolved Pining, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 04:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath
Summary: Duke Morand had more important responsibilities than looking after the health of his hired assassin, but a late night brings forth a long-hoped for confession.





	The Duke's Blade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/gifts).



> Happy Chocobox, Shadow! And many thanks to my beta, Gileonnen!

Morand would not look at the candle clock. He didn’t have to know the time when he only had to finish the work covering his desk. The city’s needs seemed to double by the day, and there were two proposals still to read on the prevention of sickness. 

He glanced at the clock, seeing that it was past four. Guérin was hours late—dangerously late. He was one of the agents Morand couldn’t acknowledge, and more important than Morand would have liked. Guérin solved the unsolvable. So long as he kept Guérin on retainer, the assassin came at Morand’s summons. More often than not, Guérin guessed in advance when his talents were needed, slipping past Morand’s guards to appear in his office.

Assassins weren’t known for having long lifespans or sensitive souls. Guérin couldn’t be much different from the rest of his kind, which made Morand’s damned feelings for him even more unreasonable. His mother had liked to say that loving someone who couldn’t love you back was like loading every meal with handfuls of salt. It wouldn’t kill you, but you’d be miserable company.

Well, Morand told himself, Guérin was probably dead. Problem solved. Perhaps Morand could love someone more attainable next, like the king.

Morand started at the sound of tapping on the window. He rushed to undo the latch and swing open the shutters.

“Your Grace,” Guérin said, giving the slightest bow as he stepped into Morand’s office. “I’d apologize for the late hour, but of course you’re awake. Do you have the least idea how many guards with excellent hearing are kept by the Count de Liarde? It felt like forty. I was obliged to change my coat afterwards.”

Guérin adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, showing a single spot of blood below his right wrist. His movements were graceful, carried through with an actor’s dignity. He was on the shorter side, slender and narrow-waisted.

No one ever expected Guérin to be quick with a blade. There was always a disarming sweetness to his face, and he was pretty enough that he’d disguised himself as a woman more than once. Morand hadn’t believed how Guérin could have been recommended so highly, until he’d returned from his first task with the target’s ring still attached to his severed finger.

“But de Liarde is dead?” Morand asked.

“Oh, completely.” Guérin smiled. “One of your men will give you a detailed report after sunrise. I’d like a bonus, in light of my coat.”

“Yes, of course.”          

Guérin never stayed long after a job. He was happy enough to take up Morand’s time beforehand, whether it was with cheating at cards or asking Morand about his plans for the city. Guerin knew the streets like no one else, and Morand valued his counsel, glib as it was. But tonight, Guérin looked exhausted; there were dark circles under his eyes, and he was paler than usual, now that his cheeks weren’t red from the cold outside.

Morand had spent hours worrying about him, and now that Guérin was here, he looked ready to fall over. He couldn’t bear to let Guérin drag himself alone to wherever he lived.

“Guérin,” Morand asked, “could you stay for a glass of wine?”

“I really ought to be going...” Guérin looked thoughtfully to Morand, then closed the shutters. “But it would be rude to refuse a duke.”

Turning his back on Guérin, Morand went to the wine cabinet, selecting a bottle of red that an ambassador had made a great deal out of gifting to him. By the time he’d uncorked and poured two glasses, Guérin had settled in Morand’s chair.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Guérin said, accepting his glass with an atypical stiffness to his shoulder. He drained the glass in a few swallows, so Morand poured him a more generous portion.

Since he’d been kicked out of his own seat, Morand leaned against his desk. “What did you do?”

“Do you truly want to know?” At Morand’s nod, Guérin continued. “I went in through the wine cellar. The Count had a secret tunnel built out of it so he could pop up on the other side of town and fuck his mistress. Everything went smoothly. I murdered him in his bed, didn’t let him make a sound. I thought I had a clear shot back out, except a maid came in to change his chamber pot and got an eyeful of me with a bloody knife. It gets a little… embarrassing from there. I ran past her, thinking I could be out before the guard caught up with me. But the Count was renovating, so the plans for his house were out of date. Long story short, I think I killed about six. Sorry.”

Morand tamped down the automatic response of, “that’s fine.” It wasn’t, but Morand felt only relief that Guérin had survived. “Guérin, have you ever wanted to do something else?”

“My dear Morand, my apprenticeship was to a woman you had hanged in the square.”

“You can read and write. You’re well-spoken.”   

“Do you think I ought to be a clerk?” Guérin’s lip curled. “That’s like using a pistol to hammer a nail. Worse—it’s like buying a racehorse and putting it in front of a dray.”

“I could make you captain of my guard.”

Guérin shook his head. “You’d like a fox for your henhouse.”

“You’ve never betrayed my trust,” Morand replied.  

Guérin was awkwardly holding his glass with his off-hand. Morand looked to his right shoulder, at last seeing where his dark blue coat was just a shade darker, blood beginning to soak through the velvet. “You’re bleeding,” said Morand.

“Still? Damn it.” Guérin got to his feet, setting the wine on the desk so he could peer under his coat. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks again for the wine.”

As Guérin made to leave, Morand stepped in front of him and put his hand on Guérin’s chest. Guérin’s eyes flicked downwards; Morand had not thought the gesture threatening, but perhaps he should have been more careful about triggering an assassin’s reflexes. Being taller and stronger than Guérin wouldn’t help him much.

“Let me have a look,” Morand pleaded. “I can have the finest doctor in the city here in ten minutes if you need it.”

“That’s… extravagant, for what’s barely a scratch.” Guérin huffed, clearly trying to hide the pain in his shoulder as he pulled off his coat and sat back down in Morand’s chair.

His idea of a “scratch” had bloodied his shoulder and dipped down his shirtfront, the full extent hidden by his waistcoat. Morand inhaled through his teeth, hurt that Guérin had tried to conceal it. Guérin was cat-like in his habits, with all the trouble that came with it.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Morand asked.

“My body isn’t your concern.”

“I think of you as a friend,” said Morand, as he leaned down and began to undo the buttons of Guérin’s waistcoat, “whether or not you feel the same.”

He never thought he’d get to touch Guérin like this, miserable as the circumstances were. Guérin’s breathing deepened as Morand pushed his shirt out of the way—the pain must be truly awful, and Morand feared the worst. A bullet would ruin Guérin, if it didn’t kill him. He’d covered the wound with a cloth binding, sodden with blood. Morand carefully unraveled it, baring a long cut from a knife that went from just below his collarbone to the edge of his shoulder. It wasn’t very deep, but could easily fester if unattended.

“See?” Guérin asked. “Barely a scratch.” 

“It needs stitching.”

“Fetch your doctor in the morning, then. I want a little sleep before someone uses my skin as a darning project.”

“At least let me change your bandage, if you’re so intent on suffering.”

Guérin’s made a sour expression that was attractive nonetheless. Morand shrugged off his coat and tore a strip off of his shirt. Guérin’s eyes went wide as Morand used the last of the wine to soak the cloth, then wrung out the excess.

“You could’ve kept a lover very well with the price of that vintage,” Guérin said.

“You know I don’t have anyone.”

Morand wrapped the new bandage around the wound, observing Guérin’s frown when he had to tighten the binding. As Morand went to stand straight, Guérin stopped him by grabbing his waistcoat.

Guérin swallowed, his composure slipping for the first time. “Do you really care for me this much?” he asked.

Morand froze. “Yes.”

Guérin yanked Morand lower, close enough to crush their lips together. He kissed Morand like—like he’d waited as long for this as Morand had. He tasted a little like thyme, which soldiers chewed to ease the pain of marching. Morand really should let Guérin sleep, tell him that they could do well enough tomorrow what they wanted tonight. Guérin rose and stumbled against Morand, forcing him back against the desk. Morand’s heartbeat skipped at the feel of a knife at his stomach, then Guérin gutted his waistcoat like a fish. Buttons fell all over the floor. As Morand caught his breath, he saw that his shirt hadn’t been so much as nicked.

“Good lord,” Morand gasped.

Grinning, Guérin whispered in his ear, “Now your waistcoat matches your shirt.”

Morand pulled Guérin into another kiss, lightly biting his bottom lip for being troublesome. Guérin moaned, resting his knee on the desk so he could practically climb into Morand’s arms. Morand reached down to hold him by the thigh, keeping his other hand at Guérin’s waist.

“You are the smartest, densest man I’ve ever met,” Guérin said, pausing to kiss Morand’s throat. “I’ve been throwing myself at you for years and you ignored all of it.”

“I thought you were just being as charming with me as you are with everyone else.”

“And breaking into your office?” Guérin asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Showing off.”

“What about that time I stretched out on your desk and kept you from finishing your work because my ass was on your papers?”

Morand had convinced himself, somehow, that Guérin was just being a brat.

“I’m an idiot,” Morand replied.

Guérin walked his fingers up Morand’s chest and tugged at his collar. “I want you to take me on that damn desk.”

“You’re hurt.”

“Is that concern,” said Guérin, rocking against him, “that’s got you straining at your breeches?”

“I have to clear the desk first.”

Reluctantly letting go of Guérin, Morand turned to stack his papers in order of importance and tuck them safely into a drawer. Guérin sighed loudly, stripping while Morand shoved pen and ink into one corner and pushed the candle clock well out of the way.

“This isn’t as dramatic as my fantasies,” Guérin said. Morand couldn’t see what he was taking off, but each piece of Guérin’s clothing made a loud clank as it hit the floor. He’d probably hidden at least half a dozen blades in them.

“What have you got against my desk?” Morand kept finding more things that needed to be moved.

“It takes your attention away from me.” 

Morand took his coat and covered most of the desktop, hoping to spare both Guérin’s shoulder and the wood finish.

“Are you going to ruin all your clothes for my sake?” Guérin asked, slipping past Morand to sit on the desk.

“I’d replace my entire wardrobe,” Morand replied, running his hands over Guérin’s body. He was lightly muscled, with only a few scars. The largest was on his right side, just over the ribs. Otherwise, Morand might’ve thought Guérin had lived the soft life that matched his lovely face.

Morand rushed to take off his shirt and step out of his breeches. Guérin got in the way, kissing his bare chest and feeling him up with his left hand.

“You really are built like a laborer,” Guérin said, pushing his knee against Morand’s groin. “Complete with sledgehammer.”

Morand nearly blushed. “You’re ridiculous. Do you have anything for—”  

“There’s lubricant in my waistcoat that I use for picking locks. Works as well for everything else.”

Morand picked up Guérin’s waistcoat and rifled through it, finding a full collection of thief’s tools along with the flat tin he needed. He returned to Guérin, positioning himself between his legs. Guérin surprised him by lifting his legs up and resting them on Morand’s shoulders.

“Like the view?” Guérin asked.

“Very much,” Morand replied, feeling even greater urgency as he slicked up his fingers.  

He slid the first in up to the knuckle, watching for any discomfort from Guérin. But the assassin impatiently tugged at Morand’s wrist, so Morand pushed his finger deeper. Guérin was pleasingly tight, and there was resistance as Morand added a second finger, feeling for the right spot.

“Ah, your Grace, where did you learn that?” Guérin arched his back, shutting his eyes for a moment. “I’d thought you lived like a monk.”

“I’ve lived a life of discretion, and a busy one, since you’ve known me.” Morand moved his fingers in and out, trying to stretch out Guérin as quickly as possible. “Sledgehammer” was an exaggeration, but Morand still had the sort of cock men bragged about. Not that he did, since dukes were dignified and didn’t fuck hired killers on their desks.  

“That’s enough,” Guérin said. “I want to feel exactly how big you are.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’ll find me quite experienced.” Guérin winked. “Bit of a slut honestly, since you kept me waiting so long.”

Morand shouldn’t have felt jealous, but he did. “You would’ve rather had me?”

“Yes, especially now that I’ve seen you naked.”

After spreading more lubricant over his cock, Morand dragged the head over Guérin’s asshole before he pushed in just the tip. Guérin exhaled, his legs tensing. Morand stroked Guérin’s hip as he withdrew, then went a little deeper. He took his time, working himself so slowly into Guérin that Guérin gave up on cursing him to go faster, and shivered when Morand finally bottomed out.

Morand ran in his fingers through Guérin’s dark brown curls, pushing them back from his face. “You’re beautiful, but you know that,” Morand said, bracing one hand on Guérin’s chest and another on his thigh as he started to really fuck him.

“Doesn’t mean I tire of hearing it,” Guérin panted, “my dear Morand.”

Guérin gasped whenever Morand thrust exactly right, his pale skin flushing. Morand studied him, drinking in each toss of his head and how he would bite his lip and writhe.

“You look so gorgeous on my cock,” Morand said.

“Made for it, am I?” Guérin replied, smiling.

Morand stroked Guérin’s hair again. “Like almost nothing else, my deadly little thing.”

Guérin had never looked so pleased.

There wasn’t any talking after that. Guérin grabbed Morand’s forearm, digging in his nails until he must have been drawing blood. He moved his legs from Morand’s shoulders to wrap them, trembling, around his waist instead.

“Your Grace,” Guérin begged. “Please, please...”

Morand roughly took Guérin’s cock in his hand, stroking him to climax. Seeing Guérin coming over his own stomach was all Morand needed, and he barely pulled out in time to spill against Guérin’s hip rather than inside.

“Well, I certainly feel better,” Guérin said, sitting up and cracking his neck. He’d bled a little into his bandage, but it was nowhere near as bad as it’d been.

Guérin looked completely wrecked, but Morand’s desk would never seem so fine again.

Kissing Guérin’s forehead, Morand asked, “Come to bed with me.”

“A second time already? I thought you were on the wrong side of thirty for that,” Guérin replied.

But he understood the real offer. Guérin made a show of considering it, though Morand could tell he’d made up his mind immediately.

“I suppose, wounded as I am, that I ought to sleep on a featherbed for the night.”


End file.
